The days blur without her by my side, flickers of meetings and parties I endure with a smile. I find myself drinking more than I used to, a sip here, a sip there, bubbling on my tongue and tickling in my throat. My head is murkier than it used to be. Even Mother has grown more faint.
The exception is when I settle on my throne. The cold metal clears my head, chasing away the ache that runs deep in my bones. It's not silent stone. Not yet. But it helps me remember what date it is, what proposals are on the table, and which of Volo's puppets have deigned to show up. Another paper slides on my desk.
November Seventeenth
I stare, careful not to tremble. Mother nudges me back to the meeting, but none of it holds my interest. I stand. "Adjourned."
Murmurs rise, and I dismiss them all, turning the knob to my study instead of my room. It is too bare for anything but sleep. Too empty for anyone but me.
The desk is ebony, the curtains crimson, a bottle of whiskey winking from the cabinet. Leftover from Father, when wine wasn't enough to chase his demons away.
I sigh, burying my head in my arms. Does she know the date? Does she laugh at me from within her chambers?
Unlikely. Red birthdays could never have much fanfare, even when they weren't prisoners of war. They didn't have the resources to celebrate.
But I do.
Gift her a swift death. Mother curls her claws. It's the most she deserves.
Her eyes had been cooked, runny, her bones bent at odd angles. I could've sworn she twitched as Mare hauled her aloft, her lips pulled in a grim line. The hair she had spent so much time maintaining was patchy and seared, strands melted together or fried beyond repair. It was a judgment of my failure. A plan gone up in smoke.
A tap at the door, one I ignore. Another follows it, more insistent. I growl, but Mother chides me, nudging me towards the door until I surrender. Evangeline taps her foot, still clad in armor from head to toe.
I close the door. "I am ill."
"Wren can nurse you." Her voice cracks through the air like a whip. "Norta will not wait for you, Your Majesty."
I almost laugh. "It always has, darling."
She nudges the door open, eyes twitching. "Are you abandoning your duties, Your Majesty?"
"My duties are also to myself. I cannot make good decisions if I am not in good health."
Evangeline huffs. "Wren–"
"My word is law, Lady Samos." I'm enjoying this far too much. "Do you believe yourself above it?"
Silence simmers, and I wonder if she'll do it. Break propriety at the chance for my head, risk everything to beat me into the dirt. Part of me wants her to. An exit from this marriage on the most fitting of days, a present to both Mare and myself. Provided I stand the pain. I always have.
She draws back. "You'll regret this, Calore."
"Hmm." I study my fingers. "What a feeble threat."
The door slams as she turns heel, footsteps echoing down the hall. I sigh. Even now, I can't get rid of her. Even now, I am engaged to Cal's queen.
Your queen. Mother has no time for my nonsense. His head will never grace a crown again.
I open the cabinet and stare at the liquor bottle. The label is faded, light glinting off the crystal and catching on the golden tide within. It sloshes with a nudge, the slightest tip, half full and aching with memory. This is not the champagne I can sip with a clear head. This is meant for drinking alone.
Mother bubbles within me, urging me to nap instead. The dark circles under my eyes have only grown, bluish-silver bruises I run my fingers along. Oblivion that cannot change the date, nor my urge to have her laid beside me. To run my knuckles along her spine and slowly sink into her, to hold her hand as I spill all that dwells inside me. Mother's tales of my youth that haunt me to this day. She wouldn't understand. She might, but she wouldn't.
Stop it.
I yank the drawer and find glasses aplenty, Father's gift to himself that now falls to me. I once tried to sleep in his chambers. They were too big for me.
You are better than this.
Did he drink before Coriane passed? He must've. Mother told me how she weaponized him, carved holes in Coriane's mind with her love. Alcohol muddies the world around you, makes you vulnerable to those who sit beside you. It makes you a weak king.
And I must be the weakest of all.
My hand trembles as I pour, the crystal heavier than the liquid inside it. If I drop it, it will crack. If I pick it up, it will cut my hands. Silver, silver, silver, the way her blood was not, the way Thomas was not, blood that I find no comfort in.
Sometimes I wish I were Red.
Son.
It's a stupid wish, born of weakness, but I can't shake it. It's a Coriane wish, a Tibe wish, a wish that sinks me into the ground and–
I don't call Father "Tibe".
Whiskey floods my throat before she can object, muddying her voice beyond recognition. I don't need Mother meddling with my thoughts. Not anymore. If she speaks, she may do so in her own voice. Not mine.
Strange, how I would rather skewer my own brain than talk to her.
It wasn't always this way. Her skirts used to shield me from the dark, her arms from ridicule, her whispers from my own traitorous thoughts. But that was before Mare. Before I had something to lose, something she didn't approve of, something that would never go away despite her best efforts.
Another shot.
I could visit her. I could listen to her laugh at the absurdity, watch her face scrunch and slowly relax from the loneliness. Find a friend buried in her contempt.
How much have I drunk?
The whiskey bottle is far emptier, swimming in my vision. I think I'm gonna cry.
No.
Not anymore.
I down shot after shot until darkness bleeds my edges, until my eyes droop and my arms grow heavy. It's her punishment, the loneliness. She took the one person who understood me, who kept me in the light when darkness threatened from all around. I would do anything to go back.
Even if it meant destroying myself.
